


defiance

by silmarile



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, kinda? idk this isn't the healthiest relationship, lowkey character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 02:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17520449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarile/pseuds/silmarile
Summary: The Pass of Sirion has fallen, and Mairon's master is furious.





	defiance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Game We Play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/798300) by [theeventualwinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner). 



> hhh y'all im glad to be back into writing fic but also why did i have to start with This
> 
> major inspiration from @theeventualwinner, from whom i stole: italicizing melkor, little one/his master, and the general tone of this relationship.

Mairon’s master stalked behind him, the metal tips of the whip clinking softly against the dark stone floor. Mairon could not see his master, for he faced outward towards the crowd, head hanging and arms held overhead by a chain that ascended into the gloom overhead, yet he could imagine him, looking out over the crowd and relishing in his power. Mairon was usually by his side at these moments of command, and it was a jarring experience to be waiting blindly for whatever should come next. The tips of the whip curled languidly around Mairon’s bare foot as his master paused in his roaming of the dais directly behind him. 

_Look upon your lieutenant, my loyal servants,_ said his master, threading his ashen fingers through Mairon’s hair and yanking his head back until he stared out over the crowd that had gathered to see justice so cruelly meted out. His master dropped Mairon’s head abruptly and stepped back. _Look upon your lieutenant, who I trusted to defend my lands and uphold my law. And yet, despite my trust, he has grown lax in his caution and careless in his judgement._

Mairon’s hair fell lank over his face as the words fell like swords on him. He knew his master too well, and while those lesser than him may mistake his master’s tone of voice for frustration or disgust, Mairon knew that his master was furious. _Look upon my greatest error,_ said his master, and his voice was sharp and cruel. 

_The pass of Sirion is now open to our enemies. We no longer have an eye in the south, watching all that the Noldor attempt. Our lieutenant,_ and Mairon chokes back a sob because this is not what happened his master is wrong he held the fortress for as long as he could, _seems to have thought it wise to abandon his post._

There was silence, unbroken, for a moment, and Mairon breathed deeply and tried to quell the fear that gnawed up into his throat and curled about his windpipe. He wanted to speak out and tell what had actually happened and how hard he had fought, but he said nothing, but bit down on his cheek till he tasted blood and focused every part of his consciousness on the cool stone pressed against his bare calves. 

_Most would have died for such an offense,_ said his master, unsheathing the iron knife at his waist. For one dizzying, sickening moment, Mairon forgot how to breathe. He felt rather than heard the knife slide back into its sheath, and as the crowd in the hall made sounds of disappointment he took a deep, shuddering breath.  
_And yet,_ his master continued, _I believe – nay, I hope, that our lieutenant may still have some use, despite this incident. However, we must not let such a grievance pass without due punishment. Our lieutenant shall hopefully feel a fraction of the pain that he caused to be inflicted on so many of my loyal subjects with his impulsive rashness._ And, without further preamble, he raised the cruel whip and brought it down shrieking on Mairon’s bare back. 

 

\--- 

 

Mairon was no stranger to pain. Indeed, he was no stranger to pain inflicted by his master, whom he yet cherished above all, but this was something worse than he had endured before. The sharp screaming pain of the vicious metallic whip was part, and the humiliation of his subordinates watching was part as well, yet the most was the antipathy radiating from his master. Every time before when his master had beaten him, he had been consoled through it in a mixture of cruelty and kindness that left his head spinning, yet this was not that. This was impersonal and cruel in a whole new way. Mairon’s master was treating him like a common slave or prisoner, not like his second in command, his noble lieutenant who had sacrificed so much. 

He was strong, and he had endured worse than this before, but this was pain on exhaustion on heartbreak such that Mairon could not bear. He was exhausted from his trek back to Angband, he was bruised and sore from the fight he had lost, and he was cowed and humiliated before those who he commanded, who watched silently as their master meted out his twisted, cruel version of justice on his lieutenant. As desperately as he wished it, he could not sever his consciousness from his body, and thus he remained brutally aware of the jagged lines being clawed into his flesh and his blood dripping and pooling about his feet on the floor. His master’s strokes became more frantic and sudden, and though his mouth was a mess of blood from trying not to cry out, Mairon could not help but sob softly as his master struck him again and again, composure slipping and mercy failing. 

And then the blows stopped, and Mairon took in a harsh breath that sent shards of pain slicing down his back. His master exhaled too, and gazing out over his subjects who stared in fear and awe at the sight of the second most powerful creature in Angband bloody and broken at their masters feet, said, _Remember this sight. Next time anyone dares to disobey my command or forsake their post in any way, remember this sight, and remember that I may not be so kind again._ He flicked his hand and the crowd began to disperse, disappointed in their lack of involvement yet satisfied with the blood that had been spilled. Mairon’s master stalked away to hand off the whip for cleaning, and Mairon’s fear returned all at once as he heard the sound of his master’s boots echo around the now-deserted hall. 

His master yanked at the chain that held his hands up in the air and with a mechanical groan, Mairon collapsed back onto his heels as his shoulders relaxed. His master carefully unlocked the manacles from around his wrists, and said to him, in the softest voice Mairon had ever heard echo from his dark form, _little one, would you like me to clean you up?_  
Mairon stood, forcing himself to ignore the pain that made him feel like his back was aflame, and the ache in his wrists where the manacles had cut into them, and the stiffness of his shoulders that all made him want to leave his body, and said, “I believe I can find someone to do it myself, my lord.” And with all the pride of a Maia despite his state of undress and the blood painting his body red, he bowed and left his master standing on the dais before his iron throne. 

 

\---

 

Mairon sat unmoving for a long time while a healer fussed around him, cleaning and stitching his back together and rubbing salve on his shoulders and wrists, and tending to an arrow wound in his leg that had only received field treatment since Mairon had not had time to tend to it before his master decided he was in need of punishment. He barely heard when the healer told him he could leave, and wrapping himself in a long dark robe he wandered back to his rooms in a daze. Mechanically, he found himself turning the taps to bring hot water into his bath, and as he sat waiting to it to fill he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and the blue in them was nearly grey. There were bruise-dark circles under his eyes, and there was a massive purple bruise on his cheekbone, dashed through with bright red broken capillaries. Blood and dirt were smeared over his face and through his hair, whose usual glorious red-gold was hidden under grime and hung lankly down to his shoulders. Mairon looked away abruptly, not wishing to see anything else, and slowly lowered himself into the bath. He winced sharply as the hot water met his wounded back before settling himself and relaxing for the first time in weeks, at least. Lost in silent reverie, he drifted out of awareness, thinking of anything but his pain and regret. For a while, as he let his sore muscles relax and the pain in his back lessen, he amused himself with conjuring small mirages and watching them shimmer. He drifted, aware but the most relaxed he had been in weeks, and was startled out of his reverie by a knock at the door. 

“What?” he snapped, surprised at the touch of cruelty that wove through his voice. 

“Forgive me, my lord, but Lord Melkor has requested your presence,” a thin voice whined through the door. 

Mairon rolled his eyes and slouched down further into his bath, ignoring the pain as hot water met previously dry wounds. “Tell him I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. 

He could practically hear the creature on the other side of the door borrow their brow. “My lord, I am not sure that is wise,” they said, and Mairon could imagine the way their hands twisted.

“I will be the judge of that!” he snapped, his emotions stretched too thin. 

“Yes, my lord,” said the creature, and Mairon sighed in relief as he heard their footsteps fade away. He curled his toes and felt the warmth of the water seep into his skin, soothing his aching muscles and warming all the cold and tired places of his body. 

There was another knock at the door, and Mairon swore, jolting upright in his bath. 

“What is it now?” he barked, not bothering to conceal the anger that lingered in the air. 

“My humble apologies, my lord, but Lord Melkor requests your presence immediately,” said the same whining voice. 

“Tell him I will be there as soon as I am able,” Mairon said, climbing out of his bath. His pale skin pimpled at the cold air, and he dressed rapidly, pulling on dark pants and a dark green tunic. His hair he left loose, floating around his shoulders, and his feet he left bare, despite the cold stone floors. Grabbing a black cloak from beside his door, he strode out of his rooms and through the halls of Angband, past chattering orcs and glimmering fell creatures. Few paused in their activity as he passed, but none dared to meet his face. Though most had moved on from what they had seen, their lieutenant’s anger was still a force to be reckoned with. 

He strode into his master’s rooms without knocking, brushed aside a startled Maia, and fell to one knee. 

“My lord,” he said, bowing his head, rage simmering below the surface of his voice. 

_Leave us,_ his master said to the Maia, who inclined their head and left. 

“What do you need with me, my lord?” asked Mairon, raising his head and looking into his master’s eyes. Brilliant blue met cruel gold, and for a moment the air crackled with energy.  
The puissance in the air faded, and Mairon’s master turned his head aside. _Stand,_ he said, and his voice was almost gentle, without any of the harsh power that Mairon was accustomed to. 

Mairon rose slowly, eyes darting around. “My lord?” he asked, voice cautious and quiet.  
For the first time in Mairon’s knowledge, his master looked uncertain. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his ash-grey hands buried in his ornate black robes. He opened his mouth, and closed it. He looked almost human, concerned and unsure. 

Mairon did not move. He stayed where he was standing, immoving, a statue of harsh beauty. 

_Little one,_ said his master, his voice muted and quiet. _Little one, I thought you were gone from me. I thought you were captured or dead. I hoped you were dead. I_ \- and he was cut off, for Mairon lunged forward and kissed him, harsh hands on the sides of his face. 

For a moment, Mairon was afraid. He had been gone for so long, and his master was so rarely open with him. He feared that this was an unwanted intrusion, an invasion of his masters’ sovereignty, and for a moment, fear invaded him and moved his hands away from his master’s face, made him take half a step back and meet his masters’ cold golden eyes.  
Then his master stepped forward, ran a hand along the side of Mairon’s neck and up to the base of his skull, and pulled him forward. Their mouths met, and it was a hurricane, a storm of magic and emotion and desire. It had been years, far too much time without sight, let alone touch and breath and magic. Mairon felt the power radiating off his master, thrumming through his bones and making him feel more alive than he had felt in so long. Mairon lost himself in the intricate dance of their mouths, the way their bodies touch and swirl around each other, the ornate fabric cloaking his masters form. He must stand on his toes, nearly meek before the divine presence who holds him. 

They broke apart and space rushed back into existence. Mairon ran his hand over his hair, smoothing his wild flaming tresses back into a state of quasi-obedience. “My lord,” he said, and his voice was measured, steady, yet full of feeling and emotion. 

_Little one, Mairon,_ said his master, and his ashen hand reached for Mairon’s wrist. _I hope you do not think me too cruel. I must confess, your presence exerts a certain… sway over me, and in your absence I may have lapsed in certain aspects of my reign._

Mairon smiled, and there is pain still hidden behind his eyes. His master can see it, flickering in the deep blue depths, but there is joy, too, at the corners of his mouth. There is resolve in his jaw, and strength woven deep down into the sinew and tissue of his body. His master knows that if he were to break his loyal lieutenant apart and read over his bones, he would find strength carved into each one, and written on his heart.

 

—-

 

Mairon still aches. There is the pain, anchoring him to the material world and reminding him with every motion of the tumult he has suffered. And there is the pain in his mind, for not only must he contend with the visions he sees when he closes his eyes, of those who had trusted his leadership falling, but there is a new caution, a new fear that rears its ugly maw every time his master calls to him. He does not know when the pain or the fear will fade, but he knows that for now, his master touches him a little more softly, and caresses him with a hint of gentleness, and though his scars have not yet faded he still stands, proud and defiant.

**Author's Note:**

> well, yeah  
> tell me abt problems/come talk to me/give me suggestions on tumblr @spacedustsilmarile


End file.
